


Deserving

by sugarspuncoeurls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Female Character of Color, Fenhawke Week 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5864308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarspuncoeurls/pseuds/sugarspuncoeurls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Fenris learns just how powerful a thing vanity can be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deserving

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hot dang, I actually finished on time! A fluffy ditty written for Fenhawke Week Day 7: Hope. Enjoy!

He doesn’t know much about the complexities of appearance alteration, of paints and scents and cosmetics. In Tevinter, it certainly had its place, especially among the magisters. Danarius had powders he would apply to his forehead and nose, colognes he would spritz over the lapels of his robes, an attempt, he assumed, to conceal the foulness that was his natural odor, failed attempt as it always was. Hadriana, too, powdered her face, and then outlined her lips and cheekbones and eyes with paints that were meant to enhance her so-called beauty.

And that, right there, seems to be the heart of the matter. Enhancement. Improving what is thought to need improvement, be it one’s face, scent, or body. In his travels, his temporary stops in villages and towns, he would see pamphlets, posters depicting caricatures of noble ladies and fashionable gents. Amidst a jumble of symbols he couldn’t decipher but knew to be letters, _words_ , he would try to guess at their message, and always came to the conclusion that they were trying to sell those people. Not as slaves, but as vehicles of admiration and envy. Do this, wear these, spray yourself with that, and you’ll successfully convince your peers that you’re wealthier, more sophisticated, and at least in Hadriana’s case, more _beautiful_ …

Than you actually are.

He never quite understood. Granted, such things could never help him. No powder will conceal the bright white of his markings, and no perfume will overpower the scent of lyrium housed deep in the pores of his flesh.

These days, he’s content with that. He no longer seeks to hide, has no reason to, a truth he takes at least one small moment every day to absorb, in case ever he grows complacent enough to take his hard-won freedom for granted.

Yet still it fascinates him, this vanity. However frivolous it all seems on the surface, it becomes clear from merely a minute’s perusal of Hightown’s stands just how complex a culture it makes. How does one decide what color they wish to employ? Where will that color go when chosen, on the lips, the cheeks, the nose? Hadriana, he remembers, regularly chose colors of a certain boldness, deep purples and sharp, bleeding reds that emphasized the pallor of her skin. And while the combination made her look, to him, more like a bruise than a beauty (as if _anything_ could have made her beautiful to him), he supposes the choices made ultimately came down to simple preference.

For others, though, most notably the nobility of Kirkwall’s Hightown, it seems to go far deeper. There’s a series of formulas somewhere, he’d guess, that calculates all these things for them. The make of one’s clothes, the accessories to compliment them. What heel will rightfully fix one’s gait, which hat will properly cover one’s receding hairline, and which size broach will bring just the right amount of subtle attention to the cleavage (if subtlety is even what is wanted). It is knowledge that these bluebloods pay good money for. Tailors hired from Orlais, expensive materials from far-off lands, rare scents taken from the nectar of some flower deep in the bowels of a wild forest. All to copy the look of a caricature on a piece of parchment.

But perhaps he’s biased. Of all the ladies he’s seen and gents he’s studied at these gods-forsaken parties he’s actually started attending, none seem to compare to the woman who ultimately graces down those winding stairs to greet her guests. No Orlesian tailors to hinder her creativity, no cloths that would bankrupt a family of lesser means, no pins to choke away the natural life of her hair, no powders to cheapen the rich brown of her skin.

Her words, not his, but true nonetheless, if the desirous catch of his breath every time he witnesses that entrance isn’t evidence enough.

A strange thing, vanity.

Fenris rests against a headboard of black walnut, accented with velvet and almost as tall as he is. His chest is bared to capture the heat emanating from the fireplace some feet away, and his waist and beyond is layered with sheets of scarlet-dyed sheep’s wool and fustian velvet.

He doesn’t know all of this by sight or some innate knowledge. But someone _else_ in this room proudly does, and his eyes are currently on her.

Illuminated by the glow of her desk-side lamp, the only light in the room but for the fire, he watches Morowa fuss, his ears twitching so often to catch the mumbles issuing from her mouth, his eyes on her reflection in the mirror she sits before. A quick glance out the window reveals the position of the moon, and he deduces that it’s indeed as late (or early) as it feels. He awoke to the supple heat of her body leaving his arms, to relieve herself, he guessed, until he fell asleep again and later awoke to the sight before him, of her sitting in her trusty backed stool, her arms lifted with one hand wrapped tight around a thick-toothed comb as she meticulously worked through the dark mass of her hair. He’s been watching her for who-knows-how-long, waiting for her to return.

At this rate, it seems he’ll have to _keep_ watching, unless something is done.

With a sigh, Fenris maneuvers the coverlet and sheets away, his cotton-clad legs swinging to the edge of the mattress, where with a slide of his rear, he leaves the bed. He groans and stretches, shakes the sleep out of one leg, and pads on silent feet to the vanity. He goes around the mannequin standing to one side dressed in Morowa’s latest creation, a robe of royal blue, accented with gold thread. He runs his fingers along the embroidery of the bottom sleeve and pauses just behind her stool, the patterns of his markings present in the mirror with her, glowing slightly in the yellow light. Loose-limbed and still a touch drowsy, he stands in place and waits to be acknowledged.

He isn’t. Morowa’s arms remain lifted, the comb stays combing, and her eyes stay focused where they _always_ seem to be focused: on her.

He lets out a silent snort. _One of **those** nights, is it?_

With a laziness he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of even a year earlier, he places his hands on the stool’s railed back and leans forward, avoiding the movement of her arms as his head comes to rest at level with hers.

“Hawke.”

No answer, no acknowledgment. He sighs and tries again.

“Hawke.”

A mumble, not at him but at her hair, at the comb still running through it. Fenris smirks.

 _Vanity, indeed_. So be it.

When next Morowa brings the comb up for a stroke, he lifts his own hand and deftly plucks it from her fingers, keeping it aloft so she sees both what has happened and who is responsible. True to form, she comes out of her trance, blinking brown eyes as she looks at her empty hand. She meets his raised eyebrow in the mirror. And frowns.

“Fenris.” A scolding tone. His eyebrow inches higher, his smirk still in place.

“You’re bring rude.” Morowa’s frown deepens.

“I’m focusing. And _you_ were sleeping, or supposed to be.”

“Are you aware of how late it is?”

“Of course I am.” She reaches for her comb, only to miss it when he stretches his arm away, keeping it out of her reach. “ _Fen_ ris.”

“I awoke and you were here,” he says, bringing his arm back down when it’s safe to. “Why?”

“If you _must_ know-” she reaches again, and again, he keeps it away, amused when her gaze narrows with a glare. “My wrap fell off while we slept.”

“And?”

“And I had to _fix_ -” Again, she reaches, and he keeps it away. She huffs in reluctant humor. “-it.”

“That was an hour ago.”

“Perfection has no time limit, my dear knight.”

“As you’ve made clear.”

They watch each other through the mirror’s reflection. It’s an amusing sight to him, their heads together, his smirk and her glare, both equally dry as they regard one another, the comb still in his hand and hers poised to take it back. With a silent breath, he drops his chin to her satin-robed shoulder. He’s not drowsy anymore – this game has ensured it – but he’s still not happy to be out of the warmth of their bed. He closes his eyes.

“You are vain, Hawke.”

“Tell me something I _don’t_ know, hm, love?” It’s a halfhearted comeback at best, more sweet than tart, and reinforces the way her head eventually comes to rest against his own, her cheek pressed to the white locks covering his temple. A rhetorical statement it is, too, but he replies anyway.

“Your hair is fine.”

Morowa lightly scoffs. “Well, that’s the whole problem, then.” She shifts her hand back to her head, her fingers skillfully altering the lay of a tight curl. “It wasn’t just ‘fine’ when we retired to bed earlier this evening, which means it shouldn’t be just ‘fine’ now.”

“You can fix it tomorrow.”

“It _is_ tomorrow.”

“In _daylight_.”

“But I’m up _now_ , Fenris.” She bounces just slightly to prove her point, and subsequently bounces him with her. He grunts once, a lazy sound of amusement.

“You sound like a child.”

“And look like a goddess. You’re back to telling me things I already know.”

She’s hardly joking, he knows that. It makes him release the back of the stool and instead wrap his arms around it, his hands coming to press into the fleshy skin of her upper arms as he settles more securely against her back.

 _Pompous woman_ , he thinks. As if he doesn’t love her at least a little for it. Morowa Hawke wouldn’t _be_ Morowa Hawke without her so-called ‘splendor’. Again, her words, not his. When she slouches slightly, he follows, his chin cushioned between her neck and shoulder.

“What will it take for you to return my comb?” she asks. Fenris cracks open one eye to meet her gaze, his own suggesting she should already know.

“An apology for your earlier discourtesy, I imagine.”

Morowa’s mouth turns down in another frown. “Not fair,” she grumps. “You know I’m terrible at apologies. It implies I’m wrong.”

“You were. And are.”

“Yes, but I can’t _admit_ it.” Morowa moves, her hand going from her own head of hair to his, where she lightly teases at rough white bangs and split ends. “Speaking of combs, when’s the last time you used one?” Fenris huffs, his open eye closing once more as her manicured nails find his scalp.

“The last time you nagged me to use one.”

The noise Morowa makes is near-pained. “ _That_ long?” Fenris huffs again, a snuffle against her shoulder.

“Forgive me.”

“You don’t sound very sorry.”

“About as sorry as you are for your rudeness.”

“Well, then, how about this? Instead of apologizing, I’ll do something for you.” Two of her long fingers close around a thin strand of hair, gently tugging to both get his attention and present her idea. “Fix _your_ hair, instead of mine.”

Fenris snorts. Loudly. Loud enough for Prince, lounging at the foot of the bed, to twitch in his sleep. “You want me,” the man intones dryly, “to further forgo sleep, all so you can indulge yourself in playing hairdresser?”

“Well, it’s not like you don’t need it.” She tugs the strand again in emphasis. “It’s a shared victory: I get to attack these ghastly jagged ends, and you get to be pampered.”

He blows out a breath. “I don’t _want_ to be pampered, Hawke. I want to _sleep_.”

“Really? Those happy little rumbles I’m hearing say differently.” Her nails predictably return to his scalp, and however much he tries, he can’t completely control the shudder that tumbles down the knobs of his spine, like a bucket of warm water over chilly skin. Morowa is good, he’ll admit; he can vouch for all that her hands are capable of, especially when she’s determined to prove a point, and she clearly is now. It shows in the edged groan that inevitably slips from his throat when she reaches the nape of his neck, long fingers and nails pulling, stroking, toying. She laughs. “ _There_ it is. Sure you don’t want me indulging myself?”

Fenris forces his eyes open, sees Morowa’s own glittering in the mirror, and knows he’s exposed too much to dissuade her now. He sighs, stifles another rumble, and reaches up, untangling her fingers from his hair. “We _sleep_ after this.”

Morowa beams. “My word is yours.”

They switch positions; Morowa rises from the stool and excitedly pats the cushioned seat, gleeful as she finally manages to free her comb from his grasp. Fenris drops into the seat with the air of one resigned to their fate, though he does lean back, determined to at least be comfortable. He watches from the corner of his eye as Morowa rummages through one of the vanity’s organized drawers, her comb going inside only for a pair of scissors and another comb to be triumphantly lifted from the depths, the latter small, silver, and thinner-toothed than the first. “A new one?” Fenris asks. Morowa chuckles. 

“Paying attention, are we?” She hands him the comb to look over. “I bought it a couple weeks ago from a travelling merchant on the docks. It reminded me of you.”

Fenris turns the tool over in his hands, noting the small green stone set at the base of the handle. _Jade_ , he recognizes. “What was the cost?”

“Less than you’re no doubt thinking.” Closing the drawer, Morowa drops to a crouch, her attention on the vanity’s small side cabinet. “Turns out he was leaving the business and had spare inventory. I jumped.”

“Hmm.”

Rising back to her full, impressive height, Morowa sets a small jar on the vanity’s surface. “‘Hmm,’” she copies teasingly, positioning herself at his back. “You like it?”

Fenris lifts the comb to return it to her, settling into the stool. “I do.”

“Do you want it?”

He smirks. “I doubt I’ll use it to your satisfaction.”

“Never say never, my good man.” Morowa finds his head again, her fingers sifting through his hair before the comb eventually takes over, her tone confident. “You’ve just never experienced the joys of opulence.”

Fenris watches through the mirror, his eyes following the smooth efforts of the comb before they inexorably close again, senses tuned to the firm stroke of teeth on his scalp. _Opulence_ , he repeats to himself. Is that the key element behind vanity’s formula? Can one only understand its intricate nature if they have access to and an excess _of_ wealth and time? It’s no wonder he doesn’t understand, if such is the case. But…

“I was thinking of sewing up another set of clothes,” Morowa says, taking hold of the scissors and carefully snipping a small series of split ends. “A shirt for Sebastian, a dress for Merrill, a new bandana for Isabela.” She clucks her tongue. “A scarf for Aveline since she got a thief’s blood on the last one; the man panicked and sprung a nose leak as soon as he was caught, the poor sod. And a light coat for Varric.” She sets the scissors aside, humming satisfactorily at her work as her fingers ruffle away stray strands of hair. “Let me know if there’s anything you’d like, hm?”

Fenris thinks. He learned long ago not to bother declining her offers. The last time he did, years ago, shortly before Hadriana’s arrival and the subsequent shift in their relationship, she arrived on his doorstep one morning carrying no less than five articles of freshly-spun clothes, all of them simple but expertly tailored, and most surprisingly, perfectly fit for him. Gifts, she’d called them, her special way of “taking care of my own,” a statement that had effectively killed the protest in his throat.

_“Don’t take it too close to heart,” she said, her eyes sparkling with that ever-flirtatious glint, one he’d lately taken more notice of. “I have another delivery set for the Hanged Man. I’m expecting Bela to be no less difficult in accepting.”_

He remembers donning the garments later that evening (after an hour-long staring match with the clothing bag). Smoothing his hands over a handsome black cotton tunic, its fresh scent filling his nose as its softness encompassed his chest, he felt something. What, he didn’t know, but it was new, something he’d never felt while under Danarius’ heel.

Pride? No, not quite. Pride was a foreign thing to him, if only because back then, nothing existed for him to take pride _in._  A feeling of luxury, maybe, indulgence, in something not needed, not essential, not practical, but still _pleasurable_ for the simple fact that it was nice and it was _his_.

A feeling like vanity, perhaps.

Fenris opens his eyes to the sound of Morowa’s hum, an operatic melody he does not recognize. Her focus is still on his mane, the comb gently firm as it finds its way through knots, accompanied sometimes by the soft snip of her scissors. He looks at the progress she’s made, the even cut and natural shine that now comes through by way of her efforts and the lamplight. Simple, nothing near as extravagant as what she’s sometimes done for herself. And yet seeing the slight difference between then and now, he feels it again, a tingle of satisfaction that threatens to bring a smile to his lips.

It looks good. _He_ looks good.

And he likes it.

“You know what would make you look absolutely stunning?” Morowa pauses to grin at his reflection. He smirks.

“What?”

“Pulling back your bangs.” She sighs, her palms coming to lay completely on his head, lips pouting. “Such a shame that you don’t take more pleasure in these kinds of things.” Experimentally, she sweeps the strands veiling his forehead back, her fingers fluffing at his long side locks until they almost seem to cradle his jaw and cheeks. “See how it brings attention to your eyes? Perfect.”

Fenris takes himself in through the mirror’s reflection, notes again the subtle alterations made that make him look and _feel_ so different. This time, he lets the smile come. “I see.”

“Well, one can dream.” With a warm kiss to his newly exposed forehead, Morowa allows his hair to return to its natural lay, the comb a gentle guide. “Thank you for allowing me my indulgence, my dashing knight. You have my eternal gratitude.”

“Until the next time you wish me to be your personal doll.” Fenris lifts his arms in a stretch while she steps away to return her arsenal to their proper places, barring the comb, a groan softly leaving his lips as exhaustion returns, reminding him of their interrupted slumber. Forgoing an immediate return to bed, however, he examines Morowa’s work in the mirror, his fingers finding his hair and softly toying with the strands. “Hawke.”

“Yes, love?”

“You are vain.”

Morowa’s smile is wide as she pauses in her organization to glance at him with a wink. “I am.” Fenris smiles back.

“Why?”

“Because I deserve to be.” She states it matter-of-factly, a small shrug accompanying her words. “Granted, I don’t quite know where my expensive tastes came from. We were never particularly wealthy, and we worked hard and long for everything we had.” She chuckles. “Father was convinced it was blood-related, that it came from Mother’s side of the family. A safe wager, given the luxuries she once had at her leisure. As such, I guess you could say he tried his best to establish some humility in me.”

Fenris smirks. “‘Tried’ being the key word, I’m sure.” Morowa responds with a small, joking curtsy.

“Tried, indeed. ‘A pauper’s pay need not satisfy a princess’ pomp’, he would say, right before sending me off to the market with that season’s crops. Unfortunately, the lesson never quite sank in; my childhood was spent crafting crowns of paper for my head and scepters of sticks for my hand.” She shrugs. “While it was true enough that wealth would probably never be in my future, I was determined to prove the odds wrong, and so took it upon myself to find an alternative route to my admittedly outlandish desires.”

Fenris glances at the beautifully-dressed mannequin nearby, at the hand-sewn stitching and self-tailored jewelry encompassing its design. _Hardly paper and sticks, now._ “So you did,” he murmurs, thoughtful as he seeks to solidify the half-formed feelings in his head. “To open myself to such a thing as…luxury, is still a strange thought, I suppose. I wondered how you, one who came from lesser means, embrace it so easily.” He returns his gaze to the mirror, to the soft-haired elven man looking back at him. “Not long ago, I never believed I had the right to desire such, let alone seek it out. It was understood that only those of high standing deserved wealth and comfort. As a servant or slave, the idea of either was absurd.”

“And now that you are neither?” A pointed reminder, one he doesn’t need but nonetheless appreciates, envelops her tone, and she appears at his back in the mirror’s reflection, an inversion of how they began. Her hands find his shoulders, soft and kneading, hardly callused despite her frequent staff-wielding, the sleeves of her robe brushing gauzy silk over the bare skin of his biceps. Her chin finds the top of his head, her smile confident as their eyes meet. “Believe me when I say that plenty of people attempted to set me straight on where I belonged in great life’s food chain, Fenris. A Chasind fugitive mage’s child from a backwater village does _not_ end up pampered in a palace.”

Fenris huffs out a chuckle. “Their words obviously fell on deaf ears.”

“Mm, eventually. I had my share of doubts, of course, but ultimately, the promise of finding comfort for myself and my family, especially after Father died and rumors of the Blight began, silenced the naysayers.” She hums, her breath ghosting over his forehead, teasing his bangs.

Fenris tilts his head. “Then you sought comfort and riches for the sake of your family?”

“My loved ones were and are a motivator, yes.” She chuckles, patting his shoulders, her voice dropping to a playful whisper in his ear. “But I’m also just dreadfully shallow.”

Fenris laughs from a place deep in his chest, his shoulders shaking under her hands. “How shocking.”

“It’s our little secret.” Pressing her lips to the delicate tip of his ear – and eliciting a shiver for her efforts – Morowa looks at him curiously, her eyes moving over his features. “Speaking of loved ones, you never responded to my earlier offer. Is there a particular article of clothing you’d like me to make for you?”

Her wide lips are quirked, sculpted brows lifted in unobtrusive expectation, as if she already knows the small revelation he’s coming to with their conversation, but seeks not to spoil it. Fenris’ own mouth lifts at the corners, a subtle acknowledgement. He lifts a hand to grab at the jade-adorned comb on the vanity’s surface, hesitates, and then brings it to his forelocks. Awkwardly, he uses the top teeth to alter one lock, curving it along his face into a position he himself prefers. “A shirt,” he says nonchalantly, his smile growing as Morowa watches him, her teeth gradually showing in her grin as he confirms her anticipation. She nods.

“A shirt, then. What color?”

“Black. Slightly darker than my armor.”

“Design?”

“Long-sleeved, lapelled. A low, sharp neckline.”

“Sounds exquisite already.” She bounces on her toes once, her eyes near-giddy as he pretends not to notice, his fingertips playing along the comb’s teeth. “And what material?”

“What do you have on hand?”

“What did _you_ have in _mind_?”

He hesitates. Old words and crusted-over wounds threaten to pervade his thoughts a moment before he looks in the mirror and sees a fireplace, a bed made of black walnut and fustian velvet, and himself with silver in his hand, softened by golden lamplight and a lover’s tender touch.

_“Because I deserve to be.”_

“Silk,” he says, his eyes meeting hers. Morowa’s hands squeeze into his shoulders, her answering grin luminescent.

“Perfect.”


End file.
